


Earth-3

by KiiKitsune



Category: DCU - Comicverse
Genre: AU, Crime Syndicate Universe, Earth-3, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-03-19
Updated: 2011-04-25
Packaged: 2017-10-17 03:01:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 13,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/172215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KiiKitsune/pseuds/KiiKitsune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in the Crime Syndicate Universe, where the good guys are bad and the bad guys are good.</p><p>My dcu_freeforall fills started turning into a series, so I decided to start posting them as a chaptered fic here. These are more loosely connected one-shots than an actual chaptered story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dark Path; Thomas/Tim

They found Jack Drake’s charred bones in the warehouse three days after he disappeared. Tim stared blankly at the officer who had informed him.

“Is that all sir?”

“Yes son, is your mother around?”

“No.” She’s dead.

“We’ll come by again later then.”

“Sure.” He closed the door. It didn’t matter; he wouldn’t be there anyways.

The tiny rustle he heard in his bedroom was entirely on purpose, he knew. Tim made his way through the dark hallways, sensory memory coming through where his sight failed him. The blinds in his room were pulled apart, the window thrown open and the screen placed neatly on his comforter.

He didn’t bother to block the first blow.

His head snapped to the side with the force of it, and then he was up against the wall with familiar claws digging into his neck. Keeping his breathing steady, he focused his blue eyes on the soulless goggles staring back at him.

“Owlman.”

“Tim.” The hand on his throat tightened, forcing him back into the plaster. A small, toothy grin appeared on the man’s lips.

“So-” Tim took a shaky breath, “What did he do?”

“You’re a smart boy Tim. You tell me.”

Owlman- Thomas, his name was _Thomas_ \- turned and ripped Tim away from the wall in one fluid motion, sending the boy careening into the bed. The loss of contact didn’t last long; the man was on top of him a second later, pressing him down into the mattress. The window screen was digging into his shoulder blade and the small of his back.

“Owlman-”

“Tell me, Tim, what do you want?”

“Talon.” Grayson was gone, lost to a whore. Todd was dead. Tim’s head fell to the side, his visible eye still focused on the imposing figure above him, “Let me be your Talon.”

“And why would I do that? What can I gain? What can you _give_ me?”

Tim arched wordlessly, rolling their hips together.

Owlman laughed, “Is that all? I fuck _Superwoman_. What makes you think I want you?”

“You’re here right now, aren’t you?” Tim ground harder against the armoured plating, “And Superwoman’s attractive, but that’s not why you like her. You like her because she’d twisted and sick. Like you.”

There was conviction and sureness in his voice. He didn’t bother adding ‘like me’. Owlman already knew that.

“And what’s to stop me from taking what I want and then killing you?”

“Once won’t be enough.” Said like it was an undisputable fact.

The man regarded him thoughtfully for only as long as it took to push his jean down his hips.


	2. Slave/Enslave; Jason/Tim

Todd, as it turns out, isn’t dead. Or at least he isn’t anymore. Now it’s Thomas who’s buried six feet under, leaving all of his possessions to Todd thanks to some legal scheming and forgery.

Tim had long since come to terms with the fact that Thomas owned him, even if it wasn’t explicitly stated anywhere. He isn’t entirely sure how to feel about becoming someone else’s property though; especially not when their first civil conversation starts with “I’m surprised he let you wear pants.”

\--

Jason knew Tim’s arrangement with Thomas from the second he laid eyes on the kid. They weren’t exactly subtle (who would stop them?) and, after all, Jason had been Talon once. He knows what the job entails.

The morning after he becomes Owlman, Jason moves back into the manor. The first thing he does is splay out across Thomas’ bed. The kid watches him from the doorway, fists clenched at his sides and his jaw locked. Jason grins at him and rolls onto his stomach, breathing in the scent of victory.

\--

The first time they fuck, Jason drives them into an alley and bends Tim over the hood of the Owlcar. They hadn’t bothered with actually removing their costumes and Jason only regrets it because Tim’s claws ruin the car’s paintjob.

It isn’t until later that Jason notices the scratches Tim had managed to cause during his brief fight for freedom. Jason hadn’t exactly been focused on anything but the adrenaline rush of pushing the kid down and riding him hard, so it’s understandable. He kind of likes the small wounds; for reasons he doesn’t want to bother exploring.

Talon get’s declawed the next day anyways.

\--

If he were anyone else, letting Tim be in the same room as him while he slept would have been a monumentally stupid idea. It’s Jason though, so he doesn’t have to worry. It’s not because Tim likes him or because he can trust Tim. That idea is so laughable it hurts. No, if Tim sleeps in his bed it’s because he’s been stripped, ‘searched’, and shackled in a way that even he can’t get out of.

Jason doubts Tim sleeps those nights, but he’s more than content to curl around the bound boy and dance with the sugarplums until the afternoon sun hits his face.

\--

Letting Talon join the Apprentice Syndicate was nothing more than a whim on Owlman’s part. Both of them know who Talon belongs to, and nothing any of the other little ankle biters can say or do will change that.  Try as Ultraboy might.


	3. Delusion; Kon/Tim

Tim watched his breath fog against the glass wall of the penthouse, his fingers leaving sweaty smudges behind. Conner’s hands were wrapped around his wrists like they were twigs, holding him in place effortlessly.

Teeth sank into the soft flesh of his throat, droplets of blood welling to the surface where Conner’s canines broke skin. Tim hissed at the sting, keeping perfectly still otherwise. The clone licked away the blood, moving up his neck and whispering into his hair, “Isn’t it beautiful?”

The lights of the city beneath them glittered through the smog. Ultraman’s blimps travelled just overhead, blinking with crimson-coloured messages. Tim stared blankly at all of it.

One of Conner’s arms looped around Tim’s bare stomach, the other covering his collar bone and grabbing the opposite shoulder. He tugged Tim back to his diamond hard chest roughly, the impact probably causing a bruise. Tim stood stock still in the other boy’s arms, “Why so sentimental Ultraboy?”

The fingers resting on his shoulder and ribcage dug in painfully, “Can’t I appreciate the world my Father worked so hard to create?”

“Luthor didn’t create any of this.”

Tim barely had the words out by the time his head was bouncing off the reinforced glass, a spider web of cracks forming behind him. He sneered up at Conner and Conner sneered back, the hand on his throat choking off his words. The world blurred for a moment, and he was suddenly hyper-aware of the slick, sticky slide of blood from his scalp to his neck.

“Luthor. Is. Not. My. Father.”

Conner lifted him further up the wall, his toes leaving the hardwood and bits of jagged glass shredding the skin on his back. Tim grimaced, black dots dancing around the edge of his vision. A blimp passed close to the window, the red light bounced off everything in the room. It illuminated Conner’s twisted features in bloody colour and darkened the shadows around his narrowed eyes and scowling mouth. Conner looked like the devil himself and Tim could only let out a strangled moan. Rage was such an ugly emotion but Conner wore it like a God wore hellfire; glorious and frightening all at once.

Emotions were always laid bare with Conner. It was as much a turn on as it was a weakness. Tim led a guarded life, and Conner was so invasively _different_ that it shocked him every time. The hand on his neck flexed once before releasing. Tim dropped to his feet like a cat, resisting the urge to touch the bruises undoubtedly blossoming where Conner’s fingers had been.

Conner turned, stalking towards the bedroom. Tim followed him wordlessly, leaning in the doorframe while Conner shucked off his jacket and gloves. He left his pants and shirt on, dropping onto the plush mattress with a grunt. Tim had been divested the second he stepped past the threshold, his cape and tights lost to the insistent tug of TTK. The same force was sliding up his leg, urging him forward. Conner was getting better; a thought that made Tim frown minutely.

When he was close enough for Conner to touch him, the TTK became stronger. It forced him up and onto Conner’s lap, locking him into a straddled position. Conner’s belt buckle was digging into his ass, the cool metal quickly warming with the heat of his skin.

Reaching up, Conner yanked Tim down by the back of his neck, pressing an appallingly light kiss to the corner of his mouth and holding him there, “You’re mine.”

“I’m Owlman’s.”

 Conner growled, flipping them over and pinning Tim down with his weight instead of his TTK, “That bastard can go fuck himself.”

Tim was still a little disoriented; he probably had a mild concussion. Once the spark of pain from the quick motion passed, he breathed in deeply through his nose.

Like the sitting room, the bedroom had an entire wall of glass. The shutters were open, letting in a sparse amount of light.  Tim turned away from Conner to stare out at the moon.

 “ _Look_ at me!” Conner jerked his face back, nails biting into Tim’s cheeks, “You’re _mine_ , and Owlman isn’t going to take you away from me.”

He’d always been Owlman’s and he always _would_ be. Nothing Conner could say or do would change that, but the idiot could have his delusions. Tim chose not to say anything. Conner dropped his head so it was resting in the crook of Tim’s neck, his breath warm against the bite mark. His thumbs brushed absently over identical sets of old bruises on his hips; also from Conner.

“Does he ever ask where you get these from?”

“He doesn’t have to ask.” Owlman knows. He always knows.

Conner’s jeans were rough against his naked legs. Fisting the sheets, he bucked up and ground into the other boy. Conner automatically jerked back down.

“Is he jealous?”

“You talk too much.” Tim turned towards the window again, catching Conner’s lips in the process. Conner melted into it willingly, his tongue thrusting into Tim’s mouth with all the tact of a preteen-- Which he technically was, considering his ‘birth date’. Tim took it, manoeuvring the sloppy exchange into something pleasurable. It was all business for Tim, really. Manipulate the clone, let him think he was the one in control, then take advantage of him and his ridiculous ‘feelings’. That didn’t mean Tim wasn’t allowed to enjoy his work.

When Conner came, he muttered, “I love you.”

Tim just smirked into his chest and said, “I know.”


	4. Rivalry; Steph/Jason

Steph strained to hear, ear pressed to the door of her Father’s office. Stupid man. It was hard, but she could hear enough of what he was saying.

“-no. Yes. Down at the docks. He’s going to intercept a shipment. Yeah, the twelve O’clock one. His brat’s supposed to be there too.”

Straight cops didn’t go far in Gotham. Double agents were bound to get mowed down. Steph didn’t intend to die with her Father, even if it meant doing the mowing herself.

It would have been easy to send Owlman an anonymous note, telling him all about her Father’s treachery. That didn’t seem personal enough though, and she wanted to make it personal. Owlman would probably kill her, unless he knew she was completely separated from her Father. He might kill her anyways, but at least she had a better chance if she denounced the rat to him herself.

Catching his attention was a lot easier in a bright purple costume and a face mask. She was glad to find out that he wasn’t the ‘shoot first, ask questions later’ type.

“Who are you?” He demanded, pushing her arms up a little closer to her shoulder blades. She wriggled beneath him uncomfortably, the rough cement of the rooftop scraping against her chin.

“S-Spoiler. But I’m really Stephanie Brown.”

“What kind of a stupid name is that? Spoiler? Really?”

“Shut up! You’re named OWLMAN, for god sakes! If anyone here has a stupid name, it’s you-- And I’m going to shut up now before you stab me.”

He laughed, erratic puffs of hot breath on the back of her neck, “Oh, I like you. So, why are you trying to play with the big boys, Spoiler?”

“My dad’s a cop. He’s leaking your secrets.”

“Isn’t that the kind of thing you’re supposed to keep quiet about, blondie?”

“Pointless heroics aren’t my style. I want him gone.”

He let her go, standing up and leaving her to get to her feet on her own. She brushed dirt off the front of her uniform.

“Thanks for the tip-off. I’ll get my boy right on it.” He smirked, “And if you ever feel like really _playing with the big boys_ , I’m sure you’ll be able to find me.”

He took off, leaving Steph to be offended, flustered, and maybe just a little bit aroused.

\--

The night Steph’s father was to be killed, Talon showed up in her bedroom. She’d just come back from hanging out with friends to find him lounging on her bed, examining her favourite bottle of eggplant coloured nail polish.

“Owlman seemed quite interested in you.” The boy said flippantly.

She snatched away the nail polish, scowling, “Maybe I’m just an interesting person. Don’t you have a job to do?”

“I’ve got plenty of time.” He stood up. Talon was pretty short- about two inches shorter than her.

She would have laughed if she didn’t know exactly what he was capable of.

He sized her up and snorted, “You’re not even pretty.”

“Jealous much?” She crossed her arms and glared. He glared right back. Steph couldn’t see it through the goggles, but he was definitely glaring.

“Is this the part where you tell me not to touch your man, or you’ll fuck me up?”

“Among other things.”

“Why don’t you just go do your job like a good little boy?” Steph made a shooing motion.

Talon actually left, much to her surprise. If her Father’s screams were louder than necessary... Well, it wasn’t like she cared anyways.

\--

There had been two Owlgirls before Steph. The first was paralysed, the second was missing. Jason offered her the costume the same night he offered her his bed. She accepted both and, in the morning, she’d made sure Talon saw every last hickey and bite mark.

Shortstuff could _suck it_.


	5. Rape; Thomas/Talia/Jason, Damian

Ra’s al Ghul rarely ever interfered with the Owl’s. His pacifist nature and separatist attitude kept him under the radar for many years-- right up until Talia caught Thomas’ eye. Intelligent with an exotic beauty; the type of woman Thomas would possess and use until she was broken and stupid.

At first, she had cried.

Jason remembered listening to her wail as Thomas took her; as he took her. Thomas didn’t mind sharing. He had vivid memories of her hair, a beautiful, tangled mess, and her skin, a light tan that begged to be bitten and scratched.

By the time Ra’s managed to scrounge up enough man power to get her back, Talia had stopped crying. She was blank and dead inside. Jason could see it in her eyes. Ironically enough, Ra’s probably could have walked in and taken her back by himself by then. Thomas wasn’t interested in broken toys.

Ten years later, a small child stared up at Jason from the doorstep. Jason knew the thing was Talia’s. It’s skin was a few shades lighter, its eyes grey-blue, and its hair was black instead of dark brown. But Jason knew.

“You’re not my Father.”

“Your Father’s dead. Go home.” Jason moved to close the door, but the thing stuck its foot in the way. It winced when Jason kept pushing.

“Wait! I’ve travelled halfway around the world! I won’t be turned away here!” It pushed at the door, trying to wedge its way inside.

Jason pulled the door back, scowling as it tumbled into the foyer.

“And what, exactly, do you want?”

The thing got up onto his hands and knees, pleading at Jason with big blue eyes, “Teach me. Train me. I can learn nothing from my Mother or Grandfather; they refuse to do what is necessary and insist on hiding away. They’re cowards.”

“...Get up.”

It scrambled to its feet, hope flashing across its features. Jason took great pleasure in punching that particular emotion right off its face.

It hit the ground with a small cry, holding his cheek. Jason kicked it onto its back, placing a heavy foot over its heaving chest. He grinned down at the tiny, frightened thing.

“Did you think I’d let you be Talon? Is that what you wanted? I already _have_ a Talon, and at least he’s old enough for me to _want_ to fuck. You’re useless. I bet you haven’t even killed a man.” He ground his heel in, savouring the soft yelp. It reminded him a little of Talia. Maybe in a few years...

“Jason?” Steph said, coming down the stairs. She was wearing one of Thomas’ old housecoats. Just the housecoat.

Jason eyed her appreciatively, “Yeah, babe?”

She came up beside him, pressing her breasts to his arm, and looked down at the thing, “Who’s this?”

“One of Thomas’ bastards. It wants me to train it.” The laugh was clear in his tone.

Steph sank to her knees, leaning over and giving the thing an eye-full over the gape of the housecoat. She prodded its cheek with a well-manicured nail, “Aw, Jay, he’s so adorable. Stop using him as doormat.”

He removed his foot, giving her an unimpressed look, “What are you doing?”

She gathered it up, pressing its shell shocked face to her half-exposed chest, “I just want to cuddle him and feed him waffles. Don’t you?”

“No. I really, really don’t. Get that thing out my mansion.”

She ignored him, holding off on suffocating the thing so she could ask it a question, “What’s your name?”

“D-Damian.”

She squealed and resumed her smothering, “So cute! Don’t listen to Jay. He’s just being an asshole because Tim’s off getting ploughed by Ultraboy. I’ll totally train you instead.”

It managed to pry itself away long enough to splutter, “But-- I-- Who are you?”

“Steph. You can call me Owlgirl while we’re working.”

Jason growled in frustration, throwing his arms up, “Sure, fine, _whatever_! Do whatever the hell you want. I’m slitting its throat if it gets in the way though.”

He stormed away, slamming the door to the bedroom behind himself.


	6. Murder; Steph, Damian

“Hey there, Johnny-boy.” Owlgirl grinned, purple-painted lips pulling back across white teeth. Her canines seemed to glitter in the darkness. Behind her, still in the shadows, Damian’s grip spasmed on the hilt of his blade.

The man was about 6”2, with greasy brown hair and a skitterish look in his eyes. Damian counted the beads of sweat rolling down the back of his neck before he turned around. A huge, fake smile was plastered to his face.

“O-Owlgirl! What a surprise!”

“You know, I don’t think it is. You should know why I’m here.” Jumping down from her perch and blocking the mouth of the alley, she advanced on the man, laying her hand on his chest. The sharp tip of her gloved pointer finger lay precariously close to his jugular.

“About that... See, I’ve been trying to get the money you know, but no one’s loaning--”

She stopped him with a laugh, cutting and cold, “No one’s loaning, eh? Oh, Johnny-boy, you know the big man doesn’t care if you can get a loan or not. Go rob a bank or something. I hear punching little old ladies and taking their purses has turned out to be quite profitable in the past.”

“I-I- I just need one more week, I swear!”

Owlgirl backed away, arms out at her sides and her palms turned towards the smoggy night sky, “See, here’s the thing: You don’t have one more week. Omen? Baby? Come here.”

Sucking in a breath through his nose, Damian left the shadows. His legs felt stiff, carrying him over to her like a toy-soldier. She gripped his shoulders lightly, bending down enough so that her chin could rest on top of one of her hands.

“This here is Omen, Johnny-boy. Normally I do my own work, but he’s new to this so I’m showing him the ropes. Tonight’s lesson? Extortion 101. First rule? Never give them any more time. Second rule? Blood’s not as good as money, but its close. How much do you owe us again, Johnny-boy?”

“Pl-Please! I’ll pay you! I promise!”

Owlgirl ruffled Damian’s hair, “We don’t believe that, now do we? Sorry, Johnny-boy, but a deal’s a deal. You didn’t uphold your end of the bargain, and you should know that there are consequences.”

She nudged Damian forward. He faltered a little, but covered it by drawing his blade-- it was a beautiful sword, carefully weighted and polished to perfection. It shone brighter than Owlgirl’s teeth ever could in the dim light.

The man looked absolutely terrified, and judging by the smell he didn’t just look it. Damian moved slowly, judging his target. There were thirty-six nonlethal ways he could get the man on his knees. Thirty-six ways he could have the man crying and begging for mercy. Thirty-six different scenarios playing out in his mind’s eye all at once.

And then Damian wasn’t in the alley anymore. He was in the dining room of the House of Al Ghul, spearing a piece of steak instead of a man. His Grandfather sat at the head of the table, finishing his meal and sweeping away without a word. His mother sat on the other end, sipping her wine and staring out the window. The dark circles under her eyes had been there for as long as Damian could remember. She didn’t spare him a glance before she left as well. It was better that way; on the rare occasions where she did look at him, Damian could tell that she wasn’t actually seeing him. She was seeing _him_. With Talia gone, the servants moved in, swirling around him in a flurry of aprons and dirty dishes. He let them take his half-empty plate.

A heartbeat later, back with the rest of reality, Damian went over his thirty-six options one more time.

Omen took number thirty-seven.


	7. Unholy; Damian, Colin

When Owlman tells you to kill, you kill. Damian had thought, after the first murder, it would be easier-- that he’d stop seeing all the ways he could avoid it. He was wrong. The girl was barely younger than he was, but her Mother had made a mistake. He couldn’t do it. Damian had _failed_ , and he’d paid the price.

He hadn’t actually expected to wake up. He had though, and the pain was intense. He couldn’t even begin to take stalk of what was working at what wasn’t. He needed to get out of the open; he was lucky he hadn’t been looted already.

Struggling to his feet, he tried to remember where he was. The street looked like it would have been familiar if it would stop blurring for two seconds. Most of the windows were boarded up, their glass cracked or missing. They all looked residential except one. It was larger than the others, fenced in by cast iron. The front gates were open, inviting, and Damian was passing through them before he’d even realised he moved. Closer up, he could see the large, simple cross attached to the brickwork.

Damian had never been one to place any stock in Gods, but he was close to thanking one when the heavy wooden doors swung open just before he reached them. He was already falling, a splotch of orange going out of focus just before everything went black.

\--

The orange was still there when he woke up again, morphing into a head of obnoxiously bright hair. The pale, freckled boy smiled widely at him, leaning over him and patting a cool cloth to his head. The rosary around the boy’s neck swung loosely, hitting Damian’s arm.

“Hello!  Feeling any better? I patched you up as best I could, but you’re a little warm. You should probably rest for a bit.”

Damian swallowed, trying to will some saliva into his cottony mouth, “Who are you?”

He tried to make it sound demanding, but it just came out hoarse and weak. At least his mask was still on-- masks were always at least a tiny bit threatening, if only because they hid the real person underneath.

“My name’s Colin.”

He was way too young to be a priest, and Damian doubted he was an altar boy. He wanted to ask more, but the fever was worse than ‘a little warm’.  He groaned and shut his eyes, the sound echoing in the unnatural silence. 

\--

The smell of food roused him for the third time. The fever had passed and he was starving. The tiny room --closet, really-- only housed a single bed and a wall of newspaper clippings and blurry photos. The pictures were all of the Owls, including a few of Omen.

Pushing off the thin sheets, he slowly got to his feet. His uniform was neatly folded and placed at the foot of the mattress. Pulling up the hem of the enormous t-shirt he’d been dressed in, he examined the bandages. It was a sloppy job, but nothing that couldn’t wait to be fixed.

He contemplated putting his uniform back on, but decided the gown-like shirt was good enough. Leaving the room, he padded through the empty hallways, following his nose.

The lack of... anyone did not escape his notice. Shouldn’t there have been priests or nuns or worshipers or _something_? He didn’t run into anyone until he was at what looked like a poor excuse for a kitchen.

Colin was standing by a stove, stirring the contents of a pot and humming. He perked up at Damian’s presence, throwing a smile over his shoulder. His smiles were starting to remind Damian of Jason’s more and more, every time he flashed one.

“Do you... live here alone?” Damian winced, shifting into a more comfortable position. The slash to his ribcage was throbbing incessantly.

“Yep! I thought you might be hungry, so I made some extra soup for you.”

“...It smells good.”

Colin took the pot off the stove, pouring the soup into two waiting bowls. He took them both to a small but sturdy looking table, motioning for Damian to sit.

Picking up his spoon, Damian poked at a floating chunk of what he was reasonably sure was ham, “You really live all by yourself? How old are you?”

“Eleven.”

“Isn’t that a little... young?” Of course, Damian had run away from home and made it half way around the world so he could be trained by a maniac-- and he was still ten.

“I manage. You’re about my age and you run with Owlman.” Colin ate a spoonful of soup, “Being Omen isn’t exactly a kiddie game.”

“ _Ran_ with. He left me for dead.” Damian’s grip tightened on his utensil. He forced himself to relax, glaring into his bowl instead.

“If he only left you for dead, then he’ll probably let you go back. Owlman kills anyone who isn’t useful anymore. Then again, you know him better than I do.”

Damian chose to eat instead of responding.

Colin collected their bowls and dropped them in the sink, “Come on, I’ll walk you back to your room.”

Once he was in the tiny cell of a room, the tumblers of the lock clicked shut. He tried the handle; it was definitely locked. That... wasn’t a good sign.

He whipped off the t-shirt, pulling on his costume as quickly as possible. He should have checked earlier-- it was stripped of its concealed weapons. He could still fight, but with his injuries and without tools he wouldn’t be anywhere near top form.

He kicked the doorknob clean off, the door swinging open with a _deafening_ creak. The hallways seemed dimmer, though Damian was sure it was just his paranoid imagination. The smell, he was relatively sure, _wasn’t_. The scent of soup had dissipated quickly, overpowered by something rancid.

Damian beelined for the kitchen.

Colin wasn’t there, thankfully. The knives still were though. He grabbed as many as would fit into his empty holders, keeping the largest of the lot firmly in his hand.

His footsteps rang out loudly as he ventured on further. The building was big, but not endless. He eventually ended up in the main hall. The carpet between the rows of pews softened the sound of his feet hitting the floor, the lit candles casting flickering shadows about the room. Up in front of the altar, Colin was on his knees, head bowed.

Damian was so focused on the boy, he very nearly missed the other people. They lined the pews, slumped over as if in prayer. Nuns and children; Damian realised belatedly that the building had once been an orphanage, not a church.

The smell was worse there.

He crept closer, holding his breath both in fear and in a vain attempt to block out the stench. He raised the knife and--

Colin’s skin bubbled, expanding out in an eruption of flesh and muscle. His shirt shredded, his pants stretching as far as they could go, bursting beneath the knee. Varicose veins pulsed green just beneath the surface. Damian cried out in shock, stumbling backwards and into the waiting arms of one of the nuns. She drooped over sideways, head lolling freely, as if it’s attachment to her neck was only a suggestion.

“Holy cra-”

Colin stood about two feet taller than most men, and he was about two feet _wider_ across the chest. The rosary was nestled comfortably in the dip of his clavicle, the beads stretched around his thick neck.

“W-What--”

“Happened to me? Strawman was looking for a way to get rid of Owlman. He injected me with something. I killed him once I got free you know, but then I didn’t know what to do. So I came back here.”

“The people? Why?” Damian’s skin crawled where the woman was touching him. He pulled away from her embrace, stumbling back down the aisle to put some distance between him and... the monster.

“They thought I was a _freak_. That’s not very nice, now is it? The Bible says you should do unto others as you would have them do unto you. They wouldn’t want to be treated like freaks. So I punished them. Now, they can repent to God.”

“The Bible also says thou shalt not kill.” He didn’t know much about religion, but he knew that, at least.

“God forgives all.” Colin stepped closer, “He needs me to do his work-- To show the sinners the path to His light. Why else would He give me this... power?”

Damian’s back hit the doors. When had they shut? His side throbbed. The knives he’d taken seemed puny and useless.

“I’ve watched you Omen. You’re not like them, you want to do good. We can work together, I know it!”

As Colin moved closer, he began to shrink back down to his normal size. He stood toe-to-toe with Damian, smiling.

“God delivered you to my doorstep because he knew you could be my partner. He meant for this to happen, Omen, I can feel it in my _soul_.”

The knife was still in his hand. The _knife_ was still in his hand. The knife was still in his _hand_.

The saddest part was the look of utter surprise on the young boy’s face. Like that, he seemed every bit as innocent as a boy his age should have been-- even if he really _wasn’t_.

“I- I don’t und-”

“I hope your God is as merciful as you thought him to be.”

It wasn’t until he was a block away from the nearest Owlnest that Damian realised, for the first time, he hadn’t had to think about all the ways he could get around the inevitable.


	8. Grudge; Jason, Kon

Ironically, despite the millions of plans Kon has thought up over the years, it’s _Owlman_ who confronts _him_. He just shows up one day, leaning against the kitchen counter in Kon’s penthouse. Kon barely gets a look at him before the far too familiar twisting in his stomach drops him to the off-white tiles.

“You...” He growls out between pants, sweat trickling down his forehead and running off his nose.

Owlman’s fist is closed, a steady blue light shinning out from between his fingers. He glides to Kon’s side, kicking him onto his back and holding the alien stone out over top of the boy.

“We need to have a talk about _vandalism_.”

“I... haven’t t-touched... any of your shit.” Kon wheezes.

Owlman sits on his haunches, mouth pulled down in a sneer, “Oh, but you have. See, Talon is mine, and he keeps coming back to me with all these bruises and cuts. Last week he came back with a concussion. Now, I don’t know about you, but I _really_ don’t like it when other people break my things.”

“F-Fuck you.”

Owlman touches the rock to Kon’s neck, making him arch and gasp. He claws at the floor with his powerless fingers, nails sliding across smooth tile and catching in the grooves.

“So weak... I don’t even know why he thinks manipulating you is worth his time.”

“Wh- Wha-”

Owlman lays the rock down on Kon’s chest, using his newly freed hand to stroke Kon’s cheek. He laughs, “Poor, poor Ultraboy. You’re not very smart are you? Do you think he really wants you? Loves you?”

The man leans in close, so close that Kon can feel warm breath ghosting over his lips.

“He doesn’t.”

“L-Liar!” Kon musters up enough strength to clutch at the low hanging edge of Owlman’s cape, “Fucking liar!”

The man sits up, “Am I? Tell me... What would you do for him? Would you do _anything_ he wanted? I bet you would. All he’d have to do was ask. Do you think he’d do the same?”

Kon’s heart is pounding in his ears. He watches the rise and fall of his own chest, taking the stone up and down with it. He feels nauseous, and it’s not even the kryptonite anymore.

He’d only ever _really_ asked one thing of Tim, and the evidence of Tim’s answer is accosting him in his kitchen at that very moment.

“That’s what I thought.” Owlman plucks the kryptonite off his chest and pops to his feet. He waltzes out of the kitchen, and it isn’t until he closes the front door that Kon is able to sit up again.

He stays on the floor, sliding backwards until his back hits the counter. He pulls his knees up, wrapping his arms around them and resting his head on top.

“I hate you.” He says into the silence.

He can almost hear the answering “I know.”


	9. Writer's Choice 1; Bart/Cassie

The first time he sees her rip out a guy’s intestines with her bare hands, Bart knows he’s in love. He hadn’t even liked girls until then. He supposes that’s why she’s _Supergirl_.

So, between running around causing havoc as Kid Quick and decimating whatever happens to be in the fridge at the time, Bart spends his days daydreaming about long blond hair and a silver lasso. Oh, the _lasso_. He’s always been a little kinky.

Joining the Apprentice Syndicate was a no-brainer; Supergirl was already a member. Their first training session together goes better than expected.

She’s got him wrapped up in the _lasso_ within a minute, pulling him in close enough that he can see the darker flecks in her blue eyes. It isn’t her eyes he’s looking at though.

“Hey there bondage-babe.”

She blinks in surprise, but then she just looks angry.

“You perverted little SHIT!” She punches him on the last word to emphasize her point, her lasso going slack around him so he can tumble backwards onto his ass.

His visor is cracked and he’s already bruising. His tooth cut the inside of his cheek, so he spits out the blood and grins up at her, “Pick you up at seven then?”

“Eight.” She gathers up her lasso, “And I expect flowers.”

The tiger lilies get tossed haphazardly onto her kitchen counter, but the condoms he brings with are given a much warmer reception.


	10. Defeat; Tim/Kon

Tim spent every weekend with the other apprentice’s, usually carrying out group assignments for the Syndicate. On occasion though, the Syndicate had no real use for them and they were left to their own devices.

The tower they lived at during those times had two caretakers. They’d both been there since Dick’s time; in fact, they’d both been conscripted by Dick himself. Victor used to deal with the security. Over time, turning more machine than man, he became the security. Kory... well, Tim still couldn’t wrap his head around why Dick would run off with a clown when he had a Tamaranian sex slave waiting for him, but Tim had the sneaking suspicion that Dick had never really left the circus, so he supposed it made some sort of sense. Kory really only did the gardening, once Dick left.

Perched out on one of Kory’s exotic trees, he watched his... they weren’t really a _team_. ‘Associates’ was a more appropriate word.

Supergirl, Kid Quick, Jericho, Red Scarab, Red Devil and...

Ultraboy.

He was being uncharacteristically reserved, for once in his life. While the others were splashing about in the pool, he’d stayed inside. Tim could see him through the window. He was in the kitchen area, sitting at the table... staring at Tim. Tim stared right back.

Ultraboy broke first, standing up and retreating from the kitchen entirely.

“Talon, tell Kid Quick you’ll gut him if he touches me again. Pretty please?”

“Aw, I know you love it, babe.”

Tim watched with a dry amusement as Supergirl and Kid Quick wrestled from the lawn chairs over and into the pool. They fell in with a loud splash, sending a small tidal wave crashing over Jericho. Her curses went ignored as the couple resurfaced, kissing furiously and groping each other like they lacked any sort of decency. Which was probably true. No, scratch that, Tim knew they had nothing of the sort.

\--

Usually, by ten o’clock Saturday night, assuming nothing Syndicate-related came up, Kon would have dragged Tim off to his room or invaded Tim’s. Once, he’d even caught Tim on his way past the boiler room.

The lack of brutal, _almost_ mind-numbing (because Tim _never_ stopped thinking) sex was... noticeable.

Obviously, there was something up. Tim made it his business to be in pretty much every loop he stumbled across. Being out of one so close to home was irritating. It was a situation that would have to be rectified immediately.

Kon wasn’t in his bedroom. He wasn’t in the kitchen. He wasn’t in the living room.

Tim found him on the roof.

When Tim was six, his mother bought him a camera. He took pictures of everything and everyone, right up until one of the school bullies grabbed it from him and smashed it. He broke said bully’s nose a minute later, but the camera was still ruined and his mother wasn’t around to give him a new one. He kept all the pictures he’d taken up on his bedroom walls, but those had curled and turned into a fine black powder along with the rest of his parent’s house after Thomas came and took him. Since then, he’d acquired much more lucrative hobbies than photography.

Still, the image of Kon seated on the ledge, the starry night and water glittering with the nearby city lights for a backdrop, made Tim’s fingers twitch in search of a shutter button.

He’d have to examine and take apart that particular weakness later.

“Avoiding me won’t make me disappear.”

Kon tensed, his shoulders pulling the leather of his jacket taught across them. Tim sank to his knees behind the clone, resting his hands on Kon’s forearms and kissing the nape of his neck gently.

“Don’t touch me.”

Tim froze.

“What’s wrong, Ultraboy?”

Kon pushed off the roof, spinning around in the air and glaring at Tim, “That’s not my name!”

Tim stood up, his cape falling around him, “It is when we’re on duty.”

“You call me that when we _fuck_. Or is that just ‘duty’ too?” Kon sneered. Tim’s eyes narrowed behind the goggles.

“You think I’d let you screw me for ‘duty’?” He would. He did. But Kon wasn’t supposed to know that.

“You tell me.”

Tim looked down at the cement with a sigh. He reached out and caught Kon’s jacket, reeling him back in until he hovered over the rooftop. Normally, Kon stood half a foot taller than him.  Floating, he towered over Tim. Tim had to tilt his head up to see the other boy’s face.

“What do I have to do to prove I wouldn’t?”

Kon grabbed the goggles, pulling until the rubber snapped. Tim ground his teeth against the sharp pain.

In the dimness of night, Kon’s eyes practically glowed; an alien blue.

 “Run away with me.”

It wasn’t panic that gripped Tim. It was a cool sense of dread. He couldn’t lie his way out of this. There were so many reasons as to why he couldn’t say ‘yes’, but even the reasonable ones would be a ‘no’. Saying ‘no’ meant he’d have to let the tower of cards he’d built on top of the clone’s heart come crashing down. He was in a corner. He’d lost.

“They’d find us, no matter where we went.” It was a desperate attempt and Kon didn’t buy it. His face crumpled and, for a moment, Tim thought he might try to snap Tim’s neck.

Instead, Kon just floated further up, breaking Tim’s hold on his jacket.

“He was right... You don’t--” Kon cut himself off. He watched Tim for a moment longer before turning and breaking the sound barrier, the sonic boom knocking Tim off his feet.

Tim stayed down, laying in the newly cracked cement, feeling defeated.

Check and mate.


	11. Clone; Kon, Lex

“Alexander... Come to bed. You’ll make yourself sick if you keep this up.”

Mercy grabbed Alexander’s shoulder firmly, spinning his chair around and away from the security console. He shrugged out of her grip and turned back.

“He’s looking for me. I can’t let him find me, even if I want him to.”

Mercy sighed and ran a hand through her hair in exasperation, “You need to sleep, Alex. Staring at the screens isn’t going to do you any good.”

“But I’ll know if he finds me. I can prepare... _Run_.”

Mercy spun him around again, this time yanking him out of the chair completely and shoving out into the hallway, “I’ll keep watch until you wake up again. Go. To. Bed.”

The door slammed shut in his face.

Alex stared, for a moment, both angry and relieved. Mercy was right, as usual, but he didn’t have to like it. He trudged off towards his quarters. They’d been working out of the same lead-lined bunker for nearly a month now. They would have to move again soon, but the risk of being caught during the move was too high at the moment. Ultraman didn’t actively look for them unless Alex had pulled something recently, which he hadn’t, so that wasn’t the problem. No, their main concern was... He didn’t want to think about it.

He didn’t bother turning on the lights in his room, he just stripped off and dropped onto the military grade mattress. Once he was lying down, his eyelids weighed heavily. He was out within the minute.

\--

When Alex Luthor slept, there were no dreams. Just blank, black endlessness, enveloping him and cradling him until morning. He must have been overstressed that night, because for the first time in years his unconscious was filled with far too vivid memories.

 He was standing in a cement room that he recognised well. The place had been destroyed years ago, but here it was, good as new. A green glow was cast across the floor and walls, bands of darkness moving about slowly, as if a light was being shone through an aquarium. His feet carried him to the source, and his hand came up involuntarily to touch the thick glass.

To his left, a monitor beeped steadily, the thin green line spiking up each time.

He knew what came next. He wanted to move, wanted to stop it, but he couldn’t. He could only stare, regretfully, at the peaceful looking boy on the other side of the glass.

The wall behind him exploded, as he knew it would. The beeping monitor stopped, a chunk of wall embedded in its sparking screen.

“Science projects are _so_ junior high, Luthor. We’ll be shutting this one down.” Kid Quick was, predictably, the first one in, zipping about and smashing things as he went by.

Unlike what had actually happened, they didn’t hurt Alexander. They just ignored him. He grit his teeth as Talon strode up to the tank.

“So this is Project 13? Unlucky for you, I guess. Ultraman wasn’t too pleased when he found out about this little venture of yours.” He pulled a wad of explosive putty out of his belt and tacked it to the glass, stepping back.

The tank’s explosion was far grander than that of the wall; green liquid dousing Alex, glass shards slicing his skin and shredding his clothes. Talon moved quickly through the wreckage, glass crunching beneath his boots. Alex _needed_ to stop him but--

Talon ripped away cords and pulled the breather away from the boy’s face. Talon caught him as he fell, sinking them down to their knees. One red gloved hand brushed away the wet hair sticking to the boy’s forehead while the other wrapped securely around the boy’s midsection.

Alexander watched, helpless, as the boy took his first, shuddering, machine-less breath. Blue eyes, brighter than the sky, opened for the first time, pupils dilating wildly until he could focus on Talon.

Alexander felt sick. It was just as horrible as it had been in reality.

He wanted to rip the boy out of Talon’s hands and take him far, _far_ away. This time he wasn’t even broken and bleeding, it was _possible_ \-- or it would have been, if he wasn’t rooted to the spot. He reached out but they weren’t close enough, and they seemed to be shrinking into the distance. His world was going fuzzy around the edges, collapsing in and--

“NO!”

Alexander woke up.

“Must have been some dream you were having there.”

Alexander fumbled around for the light switch, wincing at the sudden brightness and then wincing _again_ at the sight before him.

“Ultraboy...”

The teen was leaning against the wall across from the foot of his bed, arms crossed. He didn’t look particularly angry or violent, but Alexander was the last person who needed to be told how quickly an Ultra’s mood could swing.

Ultraboy pushed off the wall, circling around the bed so he could be at Alexander’s side. Alexander felt ridiculously vulnerable like that; legs outstretched before him while Ultraboy was still standing. It was really a rather impractical feeling, considering Ultraboy’s powers and his utter lack thereof. Any human would be vulnerable to him, in bed or not.

“You know how you’re only _more_ curious when you don’t know what’s inside a box? Yeah, the same thing goes for big white spots in my x-ray vision. And just because I can’t see through led doesn’t mean I can’t punch a hole through it.” Ultraboy uncrossed his arms and shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, “I’m surprised Ultraman hasn’t found you yet.”

“He’s not looking for me.” The ‘and you are?’ went unspoken.

Ultraboy looked... nervous?

“I... needed to ask you something.” Ultraboy took a deep breath, then flicked his eyes up from the floor to stare directly at Alexander, “When you made me, why did you give me emotion? Wouldn’t I have been more useful if you could just point me at Ultraman and tell me to take him down?”

Alexander was surprised, but the question wasn’t hard enough that he couldn’t answer immediately, “You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t have feelings.”

“I’m not a human anyways!” Ultraboy’s TTK must have flared, because the glass of water Mercy had left on his nightstand while he slept shattered. Alexander glanced at the broken cup and said nothing. Ultraboy looked down at the floor again and said, quietly, “...I wish you hadn’t.”

When Ultraboy had still been unnamed and in stasis, Alexander had actually thought of him as a son. In a way, he still did, but he knew the sentiment wouldn’t be appreciated. If the boy had stayed with him, maybe he would have been able to comfort him now; it was obvious that he needed it. As it was though...

“Did something happen?”

“I-- when I... left, did you ever think about coming and getting me back?” It wasn’t an answer, but at least he was talking and not destroying things.

“Every day.” That was the truth.

“Why didn’t you? Get me, I mean.”

“You would have fought me every step of the way. Kidnapping you wouldn’t exactly convince you to ‘come to the light’ anyways.”

The bed dipped under Ultraboy’s weight as he took a seat on the side. He kicked at the ground absently, “And... if I said I wanted to... ‘come to the light’ now...?”

Lex raised an eyebrow at the implications, “I... would be suspicious.”

“But you wouldn’t, like... try to kill me in my sleep or anything?”

“I don’t know what Ultraman’s told you about me, but that really isn’t my style. So no, I wouldn’t.”

“Well-- ah-- I think I want to try... being... good.”

“And how do I know you’re not just trying to trick me?”

Ultraboy rubbed the back of his neck, “I can’t really prove that to you, actually.”

Alexander pushed the sheets off himself, kicked his feet over the side of the bed and just sat beside the boy in silence for a minute. He could practically feel the anxiety radiating off the boy.

“...I’m willing to try it, if you’re willing to.”

He relaxed, slightly, “I should probably start by saying ‘sorry about your hot-helper-lady’ then. She’ll wake up in a couple of hours, but she’s going to have a headache from hell.”

“I’m sure Mercy will find a way to pay you back for it eventually, Ultraboy.”

He grinned ruefully, “Call me Conner.”


	12. Reform; Kon, Lex, Talia

Conner had spent the better part of his three years out of the tube trying to prove that Luthor had no bearing over him. It was oddly relieving to just let everyone assume he’d ‘given in to his good-side’. It wasn’t true, of course. He still had to tell himself that _‘no, it wouldn’t be better just to kill everyone who did something wrong_ ’ and ‘ _yes, he could get through the day without wanting to go back to the tower and pretend none of this had ever happened_ ’. He couldn’t just erase the past month though; he was a traitor to Ultraman and no longer Ultraboy. He was just Conner now.

Living with Alexander and Mercy and, occasionally, some other members of the resistance was... different. They weren’t the _complete_ opposite of his old friends and mentors, but there was a certain comradery between them that Conner had never really encountered before. They could joke and laugh with each other without assuming the second they turned around they would have a knife in their back. Conner could see how that sort of security could become addicting, but he still couldn’t properly trust anyone. He was sure they didn’t trust him, and probably _would_ put a knife in his back.

When Alexander introduced him to Jokester and Dr. Quinzel, Conner finally realised what it was that he’d been missing.

He’d never seen so much as a bruise on either of them, even after he’d heard them arguing that one time. They even had pet-names for each other that were born entirely out of affection, and not some twisted need to degrade or dehumanize. But, most importantly, if one of them said ‘I love you’ the other would reply with ‘I love you too’ in a heartbeat. And they _meant_ it. Jokester and Harleen were in love, and it was _nothing l_ ike what he’d had with Tim. Except in all the ways it was.

Conner had meant it every time he’d said it, despite the wounds he’d left behind, and Tim... Tim had never actually _said_ it, and Conner guessed he’d just been fooling himself when he thought he knew Tim meant it anyways.

The worst part about it all was that if Conner said it now, he’d _still_ mean every word.

At the end of the day, all Conner could really do was try not to think about it. Alexander kept him plenty busy; helping out disaster torn areas, assisting in some of the more minor missions-- That kind of thing. He still spent a fair amount of time in their new hideout. The bunker had been compromised when he showed up, so they’d packed up and headed for a new bit of real estate in Kansas.  It was an old mansion that Alexander’s father had owned long before Ultraman had come into the picture. It was still under Alexander’s name, though it was more than a little dilapidated. Mercy did a phenomenal job in putting it back in working order, but Conner still found the occasional scorch mark on the wall where heat-vision had cauterized long gashes in the wallpaper. It had been years since whatever battle had caused them, and the building was no longer under any sort of surveillance, but Conner still felt a chill run down his spine at the knowledge that once upon a time they _had_ been found.

The room Alexander gave him had a huge window that overlooked both the estate and some of the nearer farms. Ultraboy had never really been one to appreciate the little things, but Conner found he liked watching the sun die in the sky, turning the golden fields red and shadowy, before it gave way to the bright country moonlight. Sometimes, when the stars peeked though, Conner had the intense urge to pull the window open and launch himself out into the cool night air. He couldn’t risk being caught, exposing Alexander and Mercy, so he didn’t. It was one of the downsides to his new life.

Another downside was his insomnia. He could sleep, it just took him a couple hours of lying in bed and staring at the off-white ceiling. Most nights he didn’t have the patience for it. Both Mercy and Alexander were used to him traipsing around at all hours; neither of them slept much either. He’d usually end up in the kitchen, making himself a snack.

Like many other nights, he had decided to make himself a sandwich. Unlike many other nights, his ultrahearing picked up the sound of footsteps up the drive halfway through spreading a glop of mayonnaise over the bread. He was at the door and pulling it open before whoever it was could even knock.

The woman blinked in surprise, then pulled her hand back quickly. She shrank down, her feet shifting nervously on the pavement.

“Can I help you?”

“I... am looking for Alexander. I told him I was coming...”

Conner was about to open his mouth and tell her that no Alexander lived there and that she should get lost-- in fact his mouth was already open-- when Alexander popped up behind him and pushed the door open further. Conner jumped. No one could sneak up on him like Alexander could, except-- No. He wasn’t thinking about that.

“Talia, come in. Conner, step out of the way, would you?”

He moved back, watching as Alexander ushered her inside and into the main sitting room. Conner wasn’t the most perceptive of people, but the wide berth Alexander gave the woman was a little suspicious.

 It wasn’t like he was _actively_ trying to eavesdrop. Sometimes the ultrahearing picked up things when he wasn’t trying particularly hard to control it. No one could blame him if his concentration slipped for a little while, right? Right.

“I-- I know I haven’t been the best mother to him... he just looks so much like... no, that’s not an excuse.”

“No one is blaming you, Talia.”

“Either way, I can’t let him run off with... _them_. He’s my _son_.” Conner heard the woman sniffle wetly, “You know why I’m here, so... Please. Help me.”

“You already know that I’ll do what I can. Going up against the Owls isn’t exactly an easy matter. You also have to be prepared for the possibility that your son might not want to come back.”

Conner stiffened. _Owls_.

“Even if you could just get him away long enough for me to... to... _try_ to reason with him.”

“I’ve got a few possible plans, but we can go over those in the morning. You look tired, let Mercy show you to one of the guest bedrooms.”

“I-- thank you.”

Conner waited until he heard Alexander call Mercy, and then the two pairs of footsteps walked down the corridors towards the guest wing, before he burst into the sitting room. Lex was sitting in an arm chair, fingers steepled. He looked utterly unsurprised.

“Who was that?” Conner demanded, stalking up to the chair. His nails were digging into the soft flesh of his palms.

“Talia al Ghul. But that’s hardly what you’re concerned about.” Alexander raised an eyebrow at him, then nodded to the seat across from his.

Conner breathed deeply, willing his fists to unclench, and took a seat.

“Let me just say this now, before we discuss anything else; you are making wonderful progress, but if you see Talon now, it’s likely you will relapse.”

“You make it sound like I’m on a drug.”

“Aren’t you?”

Alexander... had a point. Conner tried very hard not to think about what that point was.

“However, I’m not sure I can pull off this mission without your assistance. Kidnapping Owls isn’t an easy task.”

Conner stared at the unlit fireplace, “Her son...”

“Omen.”

“I never met him.”

“He’s new, currently apprenticing under Owlgirl. Owlman doesn’t seem particularly fond of him.”

Conner hadn’t met him, but he _had_ heard of him. Talon had mentioned him once or twice, usually in annoyance. Conner suspected that had more to do with Talon’s dislike of Owlgirl though.

“He’s also the son of the original Owlman.”

“Wait... she...”

“It wasn’t her choice.” Alexander’s eyes went dark for a moment.

“Oh.” Conner let the implications sink in, “I... I want to help her.”

Alexander nodded, “That will make things easier. It won’t be impossible to do it without you though.”

Alexander had offered him an easy out with that, but Conner just grinned to hide his unease and said, “I might not even run into Talon. Omen _does_ work with Owlgirl.”

Conner doubted he’d be so lucky.


	13. Control; Tim/Kon, Steph, Damian, Talia

Picking up the kid had actually been ridiculously easy. He spent a fair amount of time prowling the streets of Gotham on his own, so it was just a matter of swooping down and grabbing him. Omen was a bit like a porcupine though; Conner counted forty three different weapons bouncing off his impervious skin before they reached their destination.

He set the boy down in the abandoned apartment.

“What is the meaning of this? Who are y--” Omen stopped and tilted his head, “...Ultraboy? Oh, Talon will love this.”

Before Conner could do more than flinch, Talia revealed herself.

“Damian...”

“Mother!” Omen’s initial surprise melted into a glare, “You set this up.”

“Yes, I-- Please come home. These people you’re with... you know what they do. Who they are.” Talia was... focusing on Omen’s chest.

“Look me in the eye.” Omen walked closer to her, she flinched, “Look me in the eye, and tell me you want me back.”

She forced herself to look up and-- Conner could see it. Just the smallest shift in her face, and even he could tell she wasn’t really looking at Omen.

She looked away.

“You can’t even do that much.” Omen sneered and--

“NO!”

Conner was just a second too late to stop it. Talia dropped to her knees, gurgling and clutching her throat. Conner had Omen’s arms behind his back, holding him still, but it was too late. She crumpled; a mercifully quick end.

Omen was laughing. It was desperate and edging on hysterical and Conner could see the tears slipping out from under his mask. He just held on, trying to think of what he could do. His mind kept drawing blanks.

Suddenly, he felt sick. His arms slackened and Omen broke free, stumbling forward and collapsing to his knees in front of his Mother. Conner’s vision blurred as he looked around. Two of the shadows morphed into people.

“Get your pet and leave, Owlgirl.”

She snorted, “ _Your_ pet _broke_ mine. I want to stick around and see his punishment.”

“ _Leave_.”

“Fine. Asshole.”

Kon waited, face down on the hardwood flooring. Maybe, if he closed his eyes, he could pretend it wasn’t happening.

Talon crouched down, yanking his head up by his hair. It had grown longer, since he left, more spiked than his Caesar-cut.

“You let him win, you know. We could have gone on pretending, and he would have lost every single time we fucked. But no, you let your _feelings_ get in the way of getting what you really wanted.” Talon shook Conner’s head a little bit, “Running away, Ultraboy. Really?”

“I’m not Ultraboy... anymore...”

“I suppose not. Ultraman already sold off your penthouse, by the way. He didn’t even bother looking for you.”

“I don’t care.”  Conner winced as another wave of nausea crashed over him.

“You surprised me back there at the tower, you know, but I’ve had time to think. This was only one battle in a long, _long_ war. I don’t have to let him win just yet.” Talon’s grip shifted so he was cradling Conner’s face in both hands. He’d set the Kryptonite down at his side.

“D-Don--” But Talon cut him off with a kiss. Conner’s mouth was moving on its own, pushing back against the soft warmth. Talon never kissed hard; every movement was fluid and precise, tongue flickering out like a snake to taste and draw Conner’s mind out through his teeth.

He pulled back, kissing the corner of Conner’s lips, then his jaw, up and up until his hot breath was ghosting over Conner’s ear.

“We can beat him. Together.”

“It sh-shouldn’t be about him.”

Talon laughed, high and hollow, his thumb stroking Conner’s cheekbone, “It’s _always_ about him.”

Conner breathed out through his nose, shutting his eyes and trying to think of his room back in Kansas. The fields were burning.

Talon dropped his head and moved around him, a heavy hand trailing down his spine. It moved back up again, this time under his shirt, the fabric bunching up at Talon’s wrist, resisting the movement only because it was caught between Conner’s torso and the floor. Talon didn’t bother taking it off; he just left it gathered beneath Conner’s underarms so he could lean down and press two feather-light kisses to the divots on either side of Conner’s spine.

Conner shivered. The kryptonite glowed brightly just inches from his nose. Beyond that, Talia’s corpse lay twisted. The pool of blood she was in was spreading slowly. He wondered if it would spread far enough that he could drown in it. He’d heard stories of people who’d drowned in puddles. They’d all had concussions or something that stopped them from moving, and Conner didn’t have a concussion but if he just lay there and didn’t move--

“I could have done this with anyone. Supergirl. Kid Quick. Jericho. It wouldn’t matter.” Talon’s hands slithered under him, popping the button on his jeans, “But I chose you.”

Was that... Supposed to make Conner feel special? An apology for what he’d done? What he was doing?

No. No, it wasn’t. Conner grit his teeth and beat down the part of his mind that said it _was_.

“Because I know you.” Talon’s hand slid down past his boxers, the material of his gloves rough over the base of Conner’s cock, “I _own_ you. I always have; since your first breath.”

“And every time you touched me. _Fucked_ me--” Talon tugged hard, making Conner jerk weakly, “You just drove the point home.”

He was hard and it _hurt_.

“You’re not Ultraboy and whatever name you’re using now is a lie. You don’t even _have_ a name. You’re a clone. A thing.” He wasn’t. He _wasn’t_. Things didn’t have emotions. Things weren’t people. He was a person.

“And you’re mine.” Talon punctuated it by pressing his lips to the shell of Conner’s ear. His fist tightened, thumb stroking over the slit and sending Conner crashing over the edge.

Talon withdrew his hand and flipped Conner onto his back, pushing up onto his knees so he was straddling the boy. He licked the mess off his gloves, eyes unreadable behind the goggles. Conner just watched, panting. His cheeks were wet.

Talon’s tongue flickered over the tip of his ring finger before retreating back into his mouth. He smiled, brushing Conner’s hair away from his forehead with a saliva-sticky hand.

“I will never love you, but you’ll always love me.” He kissed away one of the liquid beads rolling down Conner’s face, “He can’t control everything about me as long as I control you. And I’ll always control you.”

He reached over Conner’s head, picking up the chunk of kryptonite, and rose to his feet.

“And that’s why, in the end, I’ll win.”


	14. Caught; Jason/Steph, Tim, Kon

There was something incredibly wrong with Talon if he thought bringing the clone back to the manor was a good idea. Of course, Steph already knew Talon was a little off in the head, but that was just further evidence.

She stroked Damian’s head, propping herself up on her other arm. There were still tear-stains on his cheeks, but his eyes were shut and his breathing was even. Slowly, trying not to disturb him, she sat up. Her broken baby slumbered on.

She tip-toed out of the room, closing the door quietly. At night, the halls of Wayne manor were shadowed and spooky. Steph wasn’t scared; there were far worse things than shadows in Gotham. She would know.

The door to Jason’s room was cracked open, so she slipped inside. Everyone knew better than to try and get in if it was closed; if the opening was an invitation, the closing was a warning.

Jason was sitting in the window-seat, one knee up and one leg dangling over the side, clad only in his boxers. She took a moment to appreciate the sight.

“I’m beginning to see why you hate the clone so much. Sneaky little bugger broke Omen.” Steph touched Jason’s arm softly, sliding down to her knees on the floor beside him. She leaned her head against his thigh, “Oh well, I like him better that way.”

Jason snorted, “You would.”

Steph stroked his bare ankle, following the lines of muscle up his calf, “You know... when Talon came to kill my Father, he told me to stay away from you.”

“He actually warned you? And here I thought he didn’t like you.”

“He sounded more jealous than anything.”

Jason watched golden strands slip through his fingers as he ran them through her hair, “Knowing Timmy, he was trying to use reverse psychology or something stupid like that. And now he only hates you because you ignored his obvious warning.”

“He’s always thinking up convoluted plots that only make sense in his own head. He’s too confusing.”  She paused and thought for a moment, “And a bit of a prick.”

Jason laughed, “It’s a bit like having a puzzle with missing pieces, isn’t it? I like the challenge though. Then again, there’s something to be said for the simpler things.” He pulled her up by her hair, kissing her roughly.

She took her time enjoying it before breaking it and raising an eyebrow, “Are you calling me simple?”

“I’m calling what we have simple.” Jason stood up, taking her with him. He backed her towards the bed, then, at the last moment, spun them around and dropped onto his back. His hand was still twisted in her hair, urging her to crawl on top of him. She glared until he let go, then suckled his neck as a reward. They’d done this enough for her to know the spots he liked.

“I bet you say that to all the girls.” She mocked, fingers trailing across his ribcage and down his stomach.

“It’s true though. There’re no mind games. No power exchange. Just two people having sex because it’s _fun_.” He grinned, making the last word sound far more dirty than it should have.

“Maybe I’m playing mind games with you right now.” Steph pushed Jason’s boxers down part way, taking him in hand and rolling her fingers in a light squeeze.

“You’re playing with something, but it’s not my mind, I’ll tell you that.”

“I don’t know, you seem to keep it down there most of the time.” Steph let go and sat up, stripping off her nightgown and tossing it blindly. She heard it thump against the wall, then slither to the floor.

Jason looped an arm around her waist, guiding her upwards so he could nip at her breasts. His hand slid up her leg, goosing her once then traveling back down.

Steph let her hair cascade down, bending where it hit the sheets. She loved the bed; huge and soft in a way that only genuine _wealth_ could really create. She’d never had anything like that back home.

He pushed her further up, kissing down her belly and nuzzling at her thigh. Steph bit her lip.

“Comeoncomeon-- ah!” She jerked at the first touch of his tongue, the arms she was using to support herself wobbling for a moment before regaining their strength.

Strong hands kneaded her thighs, holding her in place while he stabbed and stroked her. With great effort she sat up. It was worth it just to be able to watch him; eyes closed contentedly, lips red and face wet with her. She played with a one of the curls on his forehead, rolling her hips forward as far as he would let her.

She’d seen the way he was with Talon. That wasn’t about the sex; not really. Jason was a different man with his lovers than when he was with his subjects. Steph wondered, if she’d fought him like Talon had -did-, if he would have treated her the same way as he did Talon. It only ever led her to wondering what kind of relationship Jason and Talon would have had if Talon was as willing as her, and she shuddered to think of any universe where that bastard wasn’t taken down a peg on a regular basis.

Steph wasn’t even entirely sure why he got under her skin the way he did. It wasn’t because he was sleeping with Jason; there was no way she’d envy _that_ relationship. She was sure there was some deeply scientific and psychological way of figuring it out, probably involving a multitude of inkblots and talking about her childhood, but she just couldn’t be bothered. He just irked her, end of story.

Jason preformed some sudden move that had her landing flat on her back beside him. He rolled on top of her, “Obviously I’m not trying hard enough. You’ve got that look in your eye that says you aren’t even here.”

She pulled him down, liking herself off his face. Between licks she said, “Sorry. Thinking.”

“If you can think, then I’m definitely not trying hard enough.”

She smirked, “You’ll just have to fix that then, won’t you?”

“I plan to.”

\--

Conner had never been to Wayne manor before. Talon’s room was huge and impersonal. There was nothing to suggest anyone really lived there-- unless Conner counted himself as a decoration. Chained to the bed, blue stone slowly killing him from its place on the night table, he might as well have been.

The ornately carved wood door swung open, Talon sweeping in with another man trailing behind.

The man was Talon’s age, dressed in a suit and top hat.

“He doesn’t seem like he’s going anywhere, Talon.”

“Prolonged exposure to Kryptonite will kill him, Zachary. I don’t want him dead.”

The man shrugged, “Hey, it’s your favour to call in. Just don’t come running to me when you’ve got a _real_ problem.”

Talon leaned against the wall, watching Zatara lean over Conner. Zachary smirked, “I can’t do anything to you directly, but how about this? Deal xob reappa.”

He picked up the Kryptonite and dropped it into the box, closing the lid, “Nepo fi eht enolc skaerb sih sniahc. Nepo fi eht enolc sevael tuohtiw noissimrep.” The magician paused, and thought, “Talon, pick a safe word. Or a phrase. Something you wouldn’t normally say.”

“...I love you.”

Zachary raised an eyebrow but turned back to the box without questioning it, “Nepo fi nolaT syas ‘I evol uoy’.”

Conner wasn’t paying attention to Zachary anymore; he was staring at Talon. Talon stared back.

“Well, my job’s done. Our debt’s settled. Next time, you’re paying me.”

Talon didn’t take his eyes off Conner, “You know the way out.”

Zachary snorted, “Like I need the door. Latrop emoh.”

He stepped through the swirling vortex that appeared, leaving the other two men alone.

With the Kryptonite away, Conner was starting to feel better. Talon stayed against the wall, silent, for what seemed like forever. Finally, he broke eye contact and walked away. He paused at the door, hand on the frame. He looked like he was about to say something, but he ended up leaving without another word instead.


	15. Sick; Jason/Tim, Kon, Lex, Mercy

Jason was perched on the edge of Tim’s bed. Conner had fallen asleep some time ago, his chains rattling softly when he turned over. At first, he’d been angry at the clone’s presence in his house. Anger had quickly given way to wry amusement though, once Jason recognised it for what it was. Tim was trying to recoup his losses-- to use resources that had already been burned and buried.

Tim couldn’t wage a winning war on barren land.

“Get out.” Hard. Icy.

Jason glanced up at the doorway where Tim had materialised. Tim was holding a plate of fresh fruit, his grip just a little too tight to be natural. Jason smiled his own, private smile, then beat back the urge to grin harder when Tim twitched at his expression.

“Ordering me around in my own home? If I wasn’t in such a good mood, I might be offended.”

Tim strode into the room stiffly, the door swinging shut behind him. He could practically smell Brown on Jason. Stupid girl.

Jason picked a grape off the plate, popping it into his mouth and biting down slowly, letting it ooze juice before it exploded. Tim set the plate down on the nightstand, out of Jason’s reach, and glared at him.

“Too sour.” Jason grabbed Tim’s wrist, tugging him forward. The resistance was minimal.

“I miss the days when you used to fight. Now it’s just a passive rage.” The older man dragged Tim down onto the bed, laying him out beside Conner and pinning him there. “All plotting and no follow through. You haven’t even tried to poison me in a month.”

Tim’s breathing was even, but Jason caught the quick flicker of blue eyes to the side. Jason follow Tim’s gaze to Conner. “Heavy sleeper. Then again, you kept him exposed to the kryptonite for quite a while, before you could go fetch the magician. He’s probably still weak from it.”

“Get off me.”

“Scared he’ll wake up, Timmy? He never actually saw you like this, did he? He knew, but really seeing it is different.” Jason’s grip on Tim’s wrists tightened, “I wonder if he’d stop caring so much if he knew how loud you screamed for me... Just me.”

\--

“I am _not_ leaving my son with those psychopaths!”

“Alexander!” Mercy held onto his arms firmly, “Rushing in won’t help anyone!”

“I’m not losing him again!”

Mercy forced him down into his chair, “Think! I know this is hard, but you have to be rational about this.”

Alexander deflated, bending over and cradling his head in his hands.

“I know.” He said quietly.

Mercy laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently, “We will get him back.”

“I know.” His nails were digging into his scalp.  
     
\--

His side felt hotter than usual, a tendril of warmth wrapping itself around his chest. Conner blinked away the blurriness of sleep, looking down to find a leanly muscled arm constricting around his pectorals. He followed the scarred skin up to where dark hair tickled his shoulder blade.

Tim’s breath was hot on his neck.

Conner was still fully clothed but Tim was bare. Conner looked down the length of his body, his gaze lingering for a moment on the cluster of small white-pink lines where the glass of his penthouse window had torn skin nearly two months ago. They were almost gone.

On Tim’s hips, in the same place he remembered leaving bruises, there were nails marks; deep and red and just starting to scab over. Not much lower down, drying on Tim’s inner thighs, was the remains of a mixture that made Conner swallow thickly and look at the ceiling.

He’d been _asleep_ and it had happened _right next to him_. Tim would have cleaned himself up before curling around him if that hadn’t been the case. _Christ_. How had he been able to _sleep_ through that? How could he--

Why should he care?

Except... it didn’t matter ‘why’. He just did.

Conner blinked up at the ceiling and tried to ignore the weight of his bondage. 


End file.
